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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29171484">Someday This Pain Will Be Useful</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atisketatasket26/pseuds/Atisketatasket26'>Atisketatasket26</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Andrew Hozier-Byrne (Musician)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:55:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,450</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29171484</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atisketatasket26/pseuds/Atisketatasket26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Yet another bittersweet rambling.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>“Perfer et obdura, dolor hic tibi proderit olim. (Be patient and tough; someday this pain will be useful to you.)”</p><p>― Ovid</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sometimes, you wished there was a bad guy in all of this. It would make it easier to move on if you could just write him off as a bastard, or admit that you made a mistake. But, there had been no unforgivable sin committed by either of you. No one got a little too drunk and went a little too far with a friendly stranger. No one tried to purposely hurt the other, or control the other. No, it just ended. There were reasons, sure. You can’t sustain a relationship between continents. It was always supposed to be temporary, you living in Nashville, him in Wicklow. But, you realized three years too late that you can’t be vague with some details. There are some conversations that need to be had. There were questions that should have been asked. Which one of us is going to fucking move? You wanted to go back in time to scream at those two love-drunk idiots. What fools they had been. </p><p>	The boxes had been waiting for you when you got home that day. Stacked up on the porch of your little house. You sat in your car, staring at them. It had been a long day. Some idiot customer trying to return a clearly damaged book. The daily minutiae of it all. Finally, mostly motivated by an empty stomach and a full bladder, you made your way to the front door. His loopy handwriting was recognizable instantly. He had gathered up everything you left behind and shipped it to you. You asked him to, you reminded yourself when that anger flared up. Andrew hadn’t done anything wrong, you reminded yourself. <br/>	Still, there had been nothing here to ship to him in return. He had only stayed in Nashville a handful of times. Never for very long. But, like so many other things, it didn’t matter anymore. </p><p>	You carried the boxes in one by one. They barely fit on the kitchen table. No sense in prolonging it, you cut the first one open. The sweater he had given you, an old one of his, folded neatly on top. You could almost picture him standing over the box, hesitating on whether or not to include it. You held it for a minute, your thumbs gently stroking the fabric. When was the last time you wore this? That walk along the coast? It had been so chilly that day. You teased him for that bark of a laugh, told him he must be part seal. A seltie, or whatever those things were called.<br/>	“Selkie,” he corrected you teasingly. You never could keep all those folktales and legends straight. Hell, you couldn’t pronounce half the names, but you loved to hear him tell them. There were certain ones you would beg for, like a child whining for a favorite bedtime story. He would stroke your hair, that lovely cadence of his flowing gently on the night air. <br/>	Before you could stop yourself, you were picturing the last time you had taken this sweater off. Or rather, he had taken it off for you. He hadn’ placed it neatly anywhere that night, flinging it to the floor instead. Those memories were so vivid, you were so touch-starved. His long hands all over you, his lips on your neck, his long hair brushing against your breasts sending chills rushing through you. <br/>	You set the sweater aside, desperate to turn the flashback off. What else had he deemed worthy enough to return? Books, the rest of the box full of them. You moved on to box number two. The vinyl you had lent him, random clothes you had left, your spare toothbrush. None of this shit mattered, you thought bitterly. Would you have even missed it if he hadn’t sent it at all? Probably not. That cigar box of mementos; ticket stubs from your first date. Photobooth strips, tiny Andrews in tiny squares, winking out at you. <br/>	You had really loved him, you knew that. You had known that for three years, and now here all was in front of you. Three boxes, that’s what it all boiled down to. Those late night confessional calls, the way those hazel eyes shifted colors and yet never shifted their focus on you. Watching him on stage, him sending you random books he saw and thought you would like. It was all over now. Gone. <br/>	It was at the bottom of the third box, unassuming. Just an unframed photo, a print you had sent him. The two of you had always sent a lot of letters, on top of all the texts and emails. There was just something lovely and quaint about finding a note in your mailbox. <br/>	It was the two of you, very early on but already obsessed with each other. It was at that birthday party he had thrown for you. It had been about a month late, but you had finally made it to Ireland so celebrations were in order. <br/>You held the photograph closer, studying the scene.  He was stretched out on his couch, drunk and half-asleep. You were sprawled across him, head on his chest. He had one arm draped over you. You were both so giggly that night, and you could see it now, in this picture. Those sleepy, silly grins, your faces turned towards each other, laughing over a long forgotten joke. Who had taken this? You couldn’t even remember. His brother? One of his friends? At any rate, he had waited until you were back home before sending you the picture on WhatsApp.<br/>	Missing you already, the message read. It was always one of your favorite pictures of the two of you. He had sent it back, why? He didn't need it? He probably stil had it saved to his phone. He knew you loved it? Just like the sweater? <br/>	In the early days of the relationship, you had convinced yourself that it wouldn’t be different. Or at least not by much. He had toured almost your entire relationship, and even when he was home there was an ocean between the two of you. You saw him, more often than not, through a screen. <br/>	But, there was a finiteness to this, a knowledge that you couldn’t talk to him anymore. Or rather, you shouldn’t. You held that picture in your hand, and you desperately longed to be angry.  You wanted to talk shit about him with your friends. You wanted to call him a bastard. You wanted to hate him. But, you couldn’t. Because he had only loved you, and you had only loved him. It wasn’t enough to make it last, but it had been worthwhile. <br/>	It hurt knowing that before whenever you were this sad, he had been the one to fix it. He was your go-to, your block of text recipient, your commiserator, your unlicensed therapist. You wanted desperately to talk to him, and you couldn’t. Or else, you shouldn’t.<br/>	As if on cue, your phone buzzed. It was a text notification. Andrew. <br/>	Did the boxes get there okay? I just got the notification that they had been delivered.<br/>	You stared at your phone, it was after midnight where he was. Why was he even awake right now?<br/>	Yes<br/>	There, good job, you thought. Simple, to the point, no sense in prolonging it. <br/>	I miss you, was his reply. <br/>	You stared at your phone. There it was, a reason to be angry. He knew better than to say that to you. He knew you missed him too, but you had to be healthy about this. <br/>	Andrew. Don’t.</p><p>	I’m sorry, I know. Can’t be helped.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Even in Triumph</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The often used trope of the flashback, and the ole "let's be friends".</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Separation</p><p>The stars dwindle<br/>they will not reward me<br/>even in triumph.</p><p>It is possible<br/>to shoot a man<br/>in self defense<br/>and still notice<br/>how his red blood<br/>decorates the snow.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You were drifting in and out of sleep, like a toddler fighting off a nap. You checked your phone. Three a.m. for you, nine for Andrew. You willed yourself awake. He was supposed to call when he woke up. You had been dating for six months now. The two of you took turns losing sleep to steal moments with others. He was fifteen minutes past when he had promised her he would call. Even this soon in the relationship, you had realized this was all but guaranteed. It’s not that he was thoughtless, he just distracted easily. As if summoned, your phone rang; Andrew. <br/>	“I’m so sorry,” he started before you could get a word out  “I overslept-”<br/>	“Let me guess,” you yawned. “Burning the midnight oil in the studio?” You tried not to be too annoyed, shooing away thoughts that he could have been the one to stay up late, then. You would have much preferred this conversation at eight. Not to mention, out of the two of you, you were the one who had to wake up and go to a job. <br/>	“I lost track of time,” he said quickly. “I’ll take two nights in a row-”<br/>	“It’s fine. Not a big deal,” you lied. <br/>	“What are you doing?” <br/>	You stifled another yawn, afraid of laying the guilt on too thick. <br/>	“Reading this great Frank Lloyd Wright book,” you admitted. Both of you had learned the hard way that reading past midnight was a quick way to fall asleep before the other called. “Sorry, it’s just so good.”<br/>	“Fair enough,” he assured you. “I miss you, when can you come here?”<br/>	“I got someone to cover the shop for a couple of weeks next month. She’s worked for me for a couple of years, she’s trustworthy”<br/>	“That’s amazing news,” he cheered. “I can’t wait to see you.”<br/>	You couldn’t help but grin. These little stolen moments were precious to you, vindicating. </p><p>	The memories flooded you constantly, and this one was no exception. You wished you still owned the book you had been reading. You took small comfort in knowing you weren’t nearly as unlucky as he had been. Whenever things got too bad, you whispered the word Taliesen over and over like a mantra. It could be worse, it could always be worse. </p><p>	“Now, tell me again why it’s a bad thing that he wants to be friends?” Scarlet asked, reaching across the table to steal a fry. You hesitated. The truth was too embarrassing to admit. Because you loved him? Because you longed for a time machine to go back and fix the broken things, to change your stubborn ways or his work ethic enough to prevent the end?<br/>	“I’ve never been friends with any of my exes,” you shrugged.<br/>	“But, you and Andrew are so similar, both total nerds. The rest were assholes. What’s the problem with giving it a try? You can cut contact anytime you feel like it’s getting too intense.”<br/>	The truth, that you had already agreed to be friends with Andrew, remained unsaid. Let Scarlet think she was being helpful. </p><p>	Besides, if you admitted that, you were scared you would also admit that you were talking on the phone with him every night. He would call after dinner, in the wee hours for him. You loved hearing that voice. He was careful, he kept the conversation firmly in platonic ground. Work, music, books. You didn’t want to mention any of this to Scarlet, though. It wasn’t that you still had feelings for him, it’s that you knew he still had them for you. He had admitted as much, and you worried that you were leading him on. You had already hurt him, and that was hard enough to live with. This weird necromancy with a dead relationship wasn’t easing your conscience any. <br/>	But, you rationalized it, pushed the cynical thoughts aside. Because Scarlet was right. Andrew knew you better than anyone, and right now you needed his insight desperately. <br/>	“I had a good day at work,” you told him one evening. “Finally tracked down that first edition I’ve been wanting for years.”<br/>	“That’s amazing. It’s quite the opposite for me, I’m trudging along, trying to get these songs sorted.”<br/>	The conversation flowed easily, and for a few brief moments you forgot about the break up completely. This can’t be healthy, you scolded yourself later. This isn’t normal. But, had anything between you ever made sense on paper?<br/>	You talked until his voice became heavy, his words forming slowly. He was falling asleep. <br/>	“I’ll let you get some rest,” you said. “Listen, it’s okay if you don’t want to call me tomorrow. Catch up on some sleep. I can’t be that important.” There was a poignant silence on the other end of the line that held for a few beats before he finally dared to break it. <br/>	“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Hollow Blackness of the Infinite Sky</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Breakup scene for the break up fic</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I fumbled<br/>for any prayer I could remember, hoping<br/>that I had all along been  mistaken about the hollow<br/>blackness of the infinite sky. I never wanted<br/>so badly to have been wrong<br/>about anything  in my life—<br/>from "Father"-Carlos Andres Gomez</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On that long, rainy flight home from Dublin, you only wanted to remember the bad. You wanted to ruminate in every fucked up thing he had ever done, or you had done to him. The list seemed endless in both its length and pettiness. No grievance was too small to drag out into the court of your anger. Anger at what, you had no idea. He hugged you goodbye at the airport, there were tears in both of your eyes. This did not end in a screaming holy war, this died quietly, almost peacefully. But yet, as you stared out at the grey vastness beyond that little window, all you could feel was fury. There was barely any room for sadness, even. You felt cheated. Here was a love that you had waited for, the kind people wrote shitty but earnest poems about. You realized, then, that it was never meant to last. It was built on sandstone that had started eroding away from the moment the two of you began. Waves had been battering it, diminishing it from the start. Now, it had sunk into the ocean the way that it was always meant to. The way you briefly wished that plane would, in a moment of rash desperation. </p><p>	The last day replayed in your head. Not your last day in Dublin, but the last day you had woken up beside him. You felt the electricity of his hand hovering above your naked shoulder, and then it made contact, running down your arm, jumping the tracks to rest on your hip. You knew everything about this man. You knew how he curled his hands up in his sleep, you knew exactly how many times he spit the toothpaste out when brushing his teeth. Things you didn’t even realize you knew about him. His head rested on top of yours.	<br/>	“Good Morning,” he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep. You kept your eyes shut, savoring this. You knew it would be the last time, even if you were still admitting it to yourself. </p><p> </p><p>	You told him that afternoon, walking in the woods. He knew that it was bad news by the look on your face when you suggested the two of you take a walk. </p><p>	The wind rustled through the trees, providing the only noise for most of the walk. You kept your heads bowed, both knowing this was a death march. Neither wanting to hasten it by opening your mouth. You knew you had to be the first to speak. <br/>	“I think it’s time to call it. I’m never going to sell my book store and more here. You’re<br/>never going to leave your family and move to Nashville. So what the hell are we doing? We’re<br/>running circles, and we’ve already wasted two years-“<br/>“Wasted!” He yelped. You trudged forward.<br/>“When I leave this time, I’m not coming back, and I need to know you understand what that means. We can’t live our lives like this, little moments stolen here and there, apart more than together. That’s not life at all, Andrew.”<br/>He took your hand in his, and you knew, he agreed.</p><p>So here you were on this plane, relishing in anger that hadn’t manifested during the severing. But now it seeped from the frayed ends.</p><p>When you were finally at home, in your bed, alone in the darkness, the sadness hit you. The force of it left you breathless, whispering urgent prayers to a god that had been forsaken since childhood. So long since you had pleaded with the heavens that you had nearly forgotten how. What an idiot you were, your mother was right, you would never let yourself be happy. Why couldn’t you have just sold that stupid shop? It was barely making a profit. And on and on the endless torrent of regrets flowed, until finally you were granted the sweet mercy of sleep.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. If Not, Let it Be</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A companion to the last chapter. And, could it be? *Gasp* A slightly happy chapter?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>let ruin end here</p><p>let him find honey<br/>where there was once a slaughter</p><p>let him enter the lion’s cage<br/>&amp; find a field of lilacs</p><p>let this be the healing<br/>&amp; if not   let it be</p><p>-Little Prayer, Danez Smith</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You only wanted to focus on the good. In the days after agreeing to be friends, you comforted yourself with reminders that he was a lovely man. He was worth knowing. Besides, it wasn’t as if this was new territory for either of you. It had never been difficult to stay friendly with any of your combined exes. He was too polite, you were too quiet, neither had time for grudges. In fact, you still swapped recipes and book recommendations with a few of your old boyfriends’ mothers. In fact, you reasoned, it would have been weird if you hadn’t stayed friends.</p><p>So you focused on the good memories, the sweet friendly ones. There were certain flashbacks you could not allow yourself. Sneaking peeks of him as he dried off after his morning shower, for instance. His lips on your neck. Watching him noodle around on his guitar from the doorway, only to have him glance up and grin that “You know what I’m thinking?” grin. No, no. Those memories were dangerous, those memories were definitely not friendly.</p><p>You catalogued the memories that fit those parameters. Like the time you ran out of gas on the interstate, and he happened to text you at the same time. When you told him your predicament, he had immediately called.</p><p>“Where are you?” he asked his voice filled with concern. “Is there anyone who could come help you out?”<br/>Your family all lived at least a hundred miles away, your friends were all at work.<br/>“What about an Uber?” he suggested.<br/>“My phone’s on 2%,” you lamented. “I’m honestly shocked it hasn’t dropped this call. It’s okay, I’ll-“<br/>“Where are you?”<br/>“Headed west back towards the city, outside Franklin. By the pasture with the buffalo.”<br/>“Okay. Hang tight. I’ll get you someone.”</p><p>You had figured he would just send an Uber himself, everyone he knew in Nashville was on tour. But an hour later, a red Ford pick up pulled up behind you. A woman your age, her blonde hair in a ponytail hopped out. She walked around to the back, pulling a red gas can from the bed.<br/>“Hey! Andrew sent me!” She called as she walked up. “Well, sort of,” she shrugged. Once the gas had been poured in, she turned and shook your hand. “I’m a friend of Jason’s,” she explained.<br/>“Who?” <br/>“Isbell, he’s married to Amanda?” You shook your head at her. None of these names sounded familiar.<br/> She told you the whole story, shouting to be heard over the sound of the traffic whizzing by. Apparently, Andrew had called or texted everyone he knew remotely near Nashville, having Kristan and Beauregard do the same. <br/>“So, Maren texted Amanda, and she had Jason call me. I live in Franklin, work just at the next exit,” she explained breathlessly. <br/>	“Thank you so much for bailing me out!” You called as she made her way back to her truck. She just waved before hopping into the cab and driving away. </p><p>It still made you smile to think of Andrew working until he had found a solution, dragging the whole damn bus into it. Because he wasn’t the type of person to leave someone stranded on the side of the road. He was worth knowing, you reminded yourself. </p><p>	You stopped feeling guilty when he would call, and you would answer by the second ring. You knew this was reckless. You knew you still had feelings for him, and that he had feelings for you. This was nothing but selfish entanglement, unable to let him go. But, you rationalized it. He deserved to be happy, and right now this is what provided that. Chatting at all hours, just like you used to. But, this was different. There were no stakes. There were no brewing arguments if he forgot, or if he ended a call early because his voice was just shot from tour. You got what you got, and you were grateful. </p><p>	“Would you be interested in meeting up when I’m in Nashville next week?” he asked one night. It had been almost a year since you last saw him, that night you flew away from Dublin, and him, and your relationship. Everything you seemed to be lingering in now. <br/>	“Yeah,” you said, without thinking. “That’d be nice, actually. We could grab barbecue at Martin’s.”<br/>	“That’s sorted then.” You tried not to think about how giddy his voice was. </p><p>	“So, are you going to tell him you’re seeing someone else, now?” Scarlet asked the next morning over coffee. “Because I know you haven’t.<br/>	“Mike and I have only been out a couple of times. Spotting the look on Scarlet’s face, you quickly added, “And, more importantly, Andrew and I are just friends.”<br/>	Scarlet’s lips formed a thin line, not unlink the one you were now traipsing all over.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Let's Put it to Music</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Back to our regular bittersweet programming.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—<br/>         Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night<br/>And watching, with eternal lids apart,<br/>         Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,<br/>How do you feel about me<br/>Now that you’ve learned to know me?<br/>Why don’t we both admit<br/>That something is happening.<br/>And we would feel better if<br/>We’d just tell each other<br/>No need to keep it to ourselves.<br/>Let’s put it to music<br/>Let’s put it to music<br/>Let’s sing about it<br/>Laugh about it<br/>Clap our hands<br/>And shout about it<br/>Let the whole world hear it<br/>In a sweet, sweet melody<br/>Let’s put it to music, you and me.</p><p>"Let's Put it to Music"-Johnny Cash</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You replayed the events of the day in your head. There was a dumbass mistake made here for sure, now to figure out exactly where you had gone wrong. It had all started out innocent enough. In fact, you had assured Scarlet that nothing could be more innocuous or platonic.<br/>	He wanted to meet up at the Johnny Cash museum. How were you supposed to know he would show up on his own? You had expected him to at least bring Kristen and Alex. But, when the black car pulled up to the curb, only Andrew emerged. He slowly unfolded his lanky frame. <br/>	“Hey!” he smiled, kissing you on the cheek. And it was fine, it was friendly. But, still, you felt that old familiar rush. His stubble brushing against your skin. </p><p>	Oh shit, you thought. Here we go. </p><p>	You had never been more aware of the space your body inhabited. You constantly calculated how far away from him. You stayed a step behind, the better to watch him. You had missed him. The weight of it fell squarely on you now. His hair was pulled back in a messy bun, the museum’s bright lights brought out the shades of auburn. Those long strides he made, you practically had to jog to keep up with him. He would stop periodically, stooping over to examine a glass case of memorabilia. He was in awe of everything. Mouth agape, eyes intent, and all you could think was how he used to look at you like that. </p><p>	You tagged along after him, barely taking anything in. Don’t walk too close, don’t brush against his arm, don’t laugh too hard at his jokes. Keep it friendly, keep it friendly, keep it friendly. </p><p>	Then you saw it, and how could you now. The biggest heart-shaped box you had ever seen. It filled the armchair it was propped up in. Johnny Cash’s looping handwriting-not terribly unlike Andrew’s-covered the lid. <br/>	“June,<br/>	My Love,<br/>	My Life,<br/>	For Life,<br/>	Johnny Cash”</p><p>	For a moment, all you could think about was how lovely it must have been for the both of them to find each other. All the obstacles, all the unlikelihoods of their relationship, it hadn’t mattered. They were married for thirty-five years. She saved his life, and so he devoted it to the worship of her. It was beautiful. Nashville’s very own Orpheus and Eurydice. <br/>	‘We didn’t have that,’ you reminded yourself. If you had, the necessary compromises would have been easy. No brainers. You would be living in his house at this very moment, shopping online for new throw pillows. But you weren’t, because you didn’t want to. That’s what was hardest to reconcile. How could you not want to? It was even harder to answer with Andrew a breath away, chuckling softly <br/>	“How funny, he signed his full name for his wife.” </p><p>	You managed a laugh. </p><p> </p><p>	When you had finally wound your way through the museum, and were in the elevator, that was when things had started to spin out of your control. You had to squeeze closer to him to make room for the other riders. You were standing so close, your arms brushing. Then, just like that his hand slipped into yours and you didn’t pull away. </p><p>	It was silly, holding hands. Is that all it took?</p><p>	But, holding hands led to getting one Uber, which led to ending up in the same location, which led to kissing on your couch. Which led to where you were now. The only sound louder than your thoughts were Andrew’s gentle snores. You turned, studied him. His hair sprawled out on the pillow like a halo, clothed only in a thin sheet. <br/>	You rolled back over, staring at the ceiling. Where did you go from here?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Violets</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>For every action, there is an equal but opposite reaction.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The girl he loves is midnight, like the blue of the sea cradled by the moonlight.<br/>The girl he loves is verdant, the very green of the hill kissed by the summer delight.<br/>The girl he loves is coral, as pink as the roses that grow in his mother's garden.<br/>The girl he loves is crimson, red like the autumn leaves that lay abandoned.<br/>The girl he loves, I can never be. <br/>Because he's allergic to violets.<br/>And violets are too much like me.<br/>-Nikita Gill</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>What the fuck had you done? You couldn’t look away from where Andrew slept beside you. There was no recovering from this. You were only going to hurt him. How could you be so stupid? <br/>	As the first rays of sunlight began to peek through your window, you climbed out of bed. You sat at your kitchen table, sipping anxiously on your coffee. He wandered in half an hour later, helping himself to a cup. <br/>	“Andrew, we need to talk,” you told him. He nodded solemnly at you, and sat down in the opposite chair.<br/>	“You think last night was a mistake,” he guessed. He wouldn’t meet your gaze. <br/>	“It was. Because you want it to be more than one night, don’t you?” He looked away, studying the greying tile. <br/>	“Would that be so terrible? We clearly still care about each other.”<br/>	“But, nothing’s changed,” you sighed. “We’ve just gone in circles. We can’t get back together, Andrew. We still live in different countries. Long-distance only works when someone agrees to move eventually.”<br/>	“I-I could move here,” he said, unconvincingly. “I mean, I would for you.”<br/>	You shook your head at him. “What about your parents?” You sighed. “We have to cut all contact, Andrew. It’s the only way to get through this. Thinking we could be friends was a mistake.”<br/>	“You’re right, it was. I’m tired of pretending I don’t love you,” he admitted then. “There’s got to be some way to reconcile this. You love me, too, or I wouldn’t be here.”<br/>	“I-I just got caught up in the moment,” you stammered. “Andrew, I’m dating someone else. His name is Mike.”<br/>	You would never forget the look he gave you then. The emotions played out so clearly on his face; shock, confusion, hurt, and yes even a little disgust. You couldn’t blame him. You had thought you were a better person than that, too. <br/>	“I’m sorry, it-”<br/>	“You started seeing someone else?” Andrew rarely got angry, but it was sparking now, his voice rising. “When you’ve still been talking to me?”<br/>	“As a friend,” you pointed out wearily. But, he shook his head at you.<br/>	“That’s not how friends talk to each other,” he insisted. “Not the way that you’ve been talking to me.”<br/>	“You’re just bad at reading people, “ you argued. He stood up abruptly, then. You knew he wasn’t trying to intimidate you. But, the height made that impossible. He towered over you, his entire face furrowed in anger.<br/>	“You knew that!” he pointed out. “How could you do this to me? How can you act like I’m just, just someone you can swap in and out as you -please? How could you hurt me like this? I loved you, I thought you loved me-”<br/>	“I did,” you tried. He shook his head at you. <br/>	“This entire time I’d been telling myself that our timing was just wrong. That we could sort this out. I was wrong. I can’t believe I couldn’t see it. I...I trusted you, and you, you knew how much I cared for you. You knew you didn’t feel the same, that there was someone else You brought me home anyway.” <br/>	All you could do was sit there and absorb the anger. You felt that he was right. You had known all that. You knew how hopeless he was socially, how trusting he was. You never meant to toy with him, but that’s how it had turned out. <br/>	“I didn’t plan this,” one final appeal on your part. “I just, I got lost in it all. I do care about you, and being around you again after all this time-”<br/>	He held up a hand to stop the torrent of excuses he could see coming. <br/>	“I was wrong,” he said quietly. That flash of anger was cooling, now. “I was wrong about everything. You’re right, no more contacting each other. Best to leave it how it is now.”<br/>	He walked across your apartment, opened the door, and left.</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. The end</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Original plan was to wait and write this tomorrow, but I need this to just be done. So, here it is.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I should have loved a thunderbird instead;<br/>At least when spring comes they roar back again.<br/>I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.<br/>(I think I made you up inside my head.)<br/>"Mad Girl's Love Song"-Sylvia Plath</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You wallowed in your bad decisions for weeks. You ended things with Mike, since clearly your heart was not in it. You didn’t hear from Andrew, just as he said. It was terribly inconvenient that now you realized your feelings remained unchanged. Even after all that had happened, you could not let him go. <br/>	Every night was the same, you thought about him. You tried to picture an outcome where you hadn’t completely fucked everything up. You wanted to reach out to him, to apologize. But, you had hurt him enough. It didn’t make any difference if you meant to or not. That look on his face the last time you saw him haunted you. </p><p>	Months went by. You heard the rumors of course; how he had tried to scrape the memory of you from his skin with a new girl. You couldn’t hold it against him. In fact, it was almost a relief. He was moving on. You were just trying to level out, and focused on your shop. But, the more you poured yourself into it, the more miserable you felt. The reality of what you had given up, the consequences you faced, became more and more evident. Though you knew you weren’t the villain your mind told you that you were. You knew it had been just a dumb mistake, Still, the guilt lingered. </p><p> </p><p>	You were never planning on making amends, But, then there he was, walking into your shop one morning. You had known, of course, that he would be playing Nashville that night. But, you never expected him to go out of his way to talk to you. He had no reason to. <br/>	“Hey,” he managed awkwardly. “Do you have a minute?”<br/>	You led him to the back of the store, leading him through the storage to reach your tiny office. <br/>	“I wanted to tell you I was sorry,” he explained. “I was completely unfair to you. What happened that night, we both caused it. Staying in contact was my idea, and-” You stopped him, shaking your head. <br/>	“I screwed everything up,” you told him. “I knew you still had feelings for me, but  didn’t want to stop spending time with you. Because, I wasn’t quite ready to let you go either.” You hesitated. The words you wanted to say floated on the tip of your tongue. You took a deep breath. <br/>	“I’m still not,” you admitted. “Ready to let you go, I mean. I’m still not. I love you, still. I get if this is completely out of line-”<br/>	He silenced you with a kiss. You buried your hand in his thick hair. Home at last. Finally, you managed to pull yourself away. <br/>	“I don’t want to rush into this, only for us to mess it up again,” you told him. “I think we should go slow. Can we start with being friends again?”<br/>	“Absolutely,” he nodded. “Of course we should.”<br/>	“Okay great, we’re friends,” you smiled. “Are you ready to move on to the next level?”<br/>	‘What’s the next level?” Andrew asked. You reached up, grabbing his face and pulling it down for a kiss. <br/>	“Ah,” he smiled against your lips. “I quite like his level.”<br/>	You laughed. You knew that you had no more answers than you had before. But, for the moment all you could do was focus on him. Standing there, entwined around each other, you realized you didn’t care about any of it. You could only focus on the gorgeous man now kissing down your neck. He was worth knowing, and he was worth the sacrifices that would need to be made.</p>
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